Bad day
by Sams Tie
Summary: On some days you can't win. And on some days, you simply loose. John's day has already been a bad one, when Sherlock enters the treatment room and things take a turn for the worse. John whump, no slash.
1. Chapter 1

"Not now", John harshly interrupted his stream of words and didn't even spare him a glance.

Not exactly the warm, cheerful welcoming, Sherlock had expected. Not that he needed John to welcome him back, to cuddle or to – perish the thought – hug him, but he was gone for eleven months, 23 days and five hours, presumed dead, buried, had a gravestone with his name on it. And he knew that John had been waiting for him to come back, unwilling to accept the detective's death, still hoping for some sort of miracle. Sherlock looked at John, irritated, watched the doctor intubating a patient, young male, between eighteen and twenty years old, who had, according to his still half-drunk, but obviously most-scared friends waiting outside the treatment room, intoxicated himself by consuming a amount of alcohol in a very short period of time. It was easy to see that this stupid kid needed help, no longer able to breathe on his own – but John wasn't the only doctor in this facility and had way more important things to do such as asking Sherlock why he faked his death, how he did it, what he had done those eleven months, 23 days and five hours and most importantly why he came back at this particularly moment. Did John seriously believe it was a simple coincidence that Sherlock returned to the surface? Sherlock sighed. Once again, Watson had gotten his priorities wrong.

Sherlock was just about to tell Watson the obvious – that he needed to accompany him so they could talk in a more reasonable setting, more specifically Sherlock could talk and explain to him the big picture – when a nurse bumped into him and gave him a look medieval folks would have called "evil eye". Sherlock instinctively stepped backwards to get out of her way, trying to understand what was wrong with Dr. John Watson who still ignored him. The work at the hospital hadn't done anything good to the doctor. He looked exhausted, his face was pale and there were dark rings under his eyes, clear signs for being overworked.

"John, we have to ...", Sherlock inserted.

"Leave the treatment room."

"This would have contra-productive effects on my agenda", Sherlock replied. He had entered the room for purpose, he couldn't just leave. If his motive to go to the hospital and enter the treatment room wasn't vital, he wouldn't have come here in first place. Why didn't John understand this?

"Kid, you have to leave the treatment room", the nurse repeated and grabbed Sherlock's arm to usher him out.

Sherlock withdrew his arm and looked at the doctor. "I came here to pick you up", he loudly said in order to drown the noise those medical devices made, turning the significant evidence for the kid being close to sighing out his soul into an unsettling melody of oncoming death. "John, you have to walk me out. There are important things to do."

"This is bloody important! The kid is dying for God's sake!"

"Yes. And apparently, there is nothing you could possibly do to stop it. It is too late and you know quite well that I am right about this. You are wasting your time and by doing so, you are also wasting mine. So come to your senses and accompany me."

Within the blink of an eye, Sherlock found himself seated on a very uncomfortable plastic chair outside the treatment room, stared at by a tall, broad-shouldered security guard who stood right next to him, cross-armed, pursed lips, definitely not in a funny mood. Sherlock shook his head in disbelieve, while wrinkles appeared on his forehead. This was not the way their reunion was supposed to take place. Why did others always have to complicate everything? Couldn't they just for once do what he asked them to? But then … John wasn't just anyone. He was his friend and again going to be flat-mate, wasn't he?

Sherlock sighed. Fair enough. He would grant John a couple of minutes to adjust to the new situation, to him being alive, to them having to work on a case. The moment the kid died, John wouldn't want to stay at the clinic anyway. He was far too sensitive therefore, not able to realize that it wasn't his fault that the young man was in this unpleasant and all at once final situation. The patient had been old enough to know what the abuse of alcohol could do to him.

The crowed of kids had vanished, perhaps their parents had taken care of them or someone had guided them to the waiting area. At least, he didn't have to sit here with all those sniveling and crying kids around.

The doors flew open and the scary nurse left the treatment room. She glanced at him, angrily, but didn't stop to tell him what was on her mind. Actually, it wasn't necessary, because Sherlock knew: for some reason she believed him to be an evil bastard. While the doors slowly snapped shut, Sherlock saw the doctor standing at the table next to the obviously dead young man, the machines not making any more noises. He only saw John's back, but he knew that John's eyes were directed at the corpse, most likely his pale, expressionless face. He appeared to be lost, somehow, standing still, hardly breathing.

Sherlock leaped on his feet and paced to the doors, followed by the security guard's attentive eyes. He pushed one door open and said: "It is time to go."

John started to move and the detective thought he had finally filtered through to his friend. But when John turned around, his face was all tired and disappointed. He passed Sherlock without looking at him and replied: "His parents are waiting for me. Go get someone else to play your games with, Sherlock."

* * *

John entered the elevator and waited for the doors to shut close. He was worried that Sherlock would come after him, get on the elevator and go on talking about things John didn't want to hear right now. But the doors closed, he pushed a button and leaned his back against the cold metallic wall, closing his eyes. Yet, he saw the kid's face, deathly pale skin, blue lips, still some colourfully confetti in his brown, straight hair, the drawing of a crooked heart on his left temple. Died on his eighteen's birthday, celebrating with his friends in a shack on his grandparent's property.

Damn it, he was so fucking weary of all that shit.

The elevator stopped, the doors opened with a tiny pling and a man in suit and sunglasses went in. John straightened himself and gave the intruder a brief smile. "Dr. Watson?", the man asked, took off his sunglasses and blatantly surveyed the doctor.

"Yes", John answered, noticing that the stranger didn't try to shake hands with him.

"What fortunate coincidence", the man replied and discreetly pointed a gun at John. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to accompany me."

_Thanks for the warning, Sherlock_, John thought, being vexed with the one who had risen from his grave, considering to put Sherlock back to where he came from. Instead of telling him about some unpleasant folks being around, posing a threat to John and perhaps everyone who got in their way, he pissed him off by talking all that cold shit in the treatment room. John sighed, put a charming smile on his lips and said: "Today, everyone's mad about me. Very flattering, for sure, and I guess you are decent chap, but sadly I already have some appointments I just can't postpone."

The stranger slowly shook his head. "I didn't assume that you were stupid, Dr. Watson. Just do what I tell you and I won't harm you."

"I'm afraid I can't make such a promise."

"The last time I looked, doctors still had to swear the Hippocratic oath. Do no harm and all that crappy shit." He lifted his gun a bit and added: "And I'm still the one holding the gun."

A very smooth and fast move later, the man unconsciously lied on the ground and John held the gun in his hand. "We all make mistakes. And I had a really bad day."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock hesitated to follow John. There was something in his friend's eyes, something so sad and tired that he to swallow, a big lump in his throat. But then, Sherlock regretted his hesitation; he preferred to rather not run after someone. He left the treatment room and glanced at the security guard who talked to a nurse, and passed the tall. When he turned the corner, his cell rang and Sherlock answered, somehow hoping it to be John calling.

"Hello dear brother of mine, are you already on your way to the rendezvous-coordinates?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and calmly replied: "You certainly know that I'm not." He had to focus, had to find John. The parents, John went to talk to them. The detective quickened his pace and told himself to not get upset, no matter what Mycroft would say.

"Your partner in crime causes troubles, doesn't he? I told you to let me deal with him."

"To knock him out, put a sack over his head and shove him in some car? No, thanks", Sherlock talked back and raised an eyebrow, although his brother wasn't there to see it.

"We can't wait any longer. Go on a cab or I'll make you."

"I haven't had a chance to explain the situation to John."

"I don't care. Leave him at the hospital."

"He is not save."

"I'll send some of my men to watch over him. Now, get on that bloody cab." Mycroft finished the conversation without giving his brother a chance to disagree.

Sherlock silently swore and dialed a number while he paced towards the elevators. John didn't pick up, so he only reached voice mail. "John, listen to me carefully. Someone very persistently tries to abduct me. Perhaps he will change his strategy and try to get you so that he can arrange an exchange. I have to leave, but Mycroft's men are on their way to the hospital. Just wait for them, they will protect you. We already took care of Mrs. Hudson and Mary, so there's no reason for doing something stupid. See you soon." Sherlock put the cell back into the pocket of his coat and pushed a button to get to the ground floor. He sighed and shook his head. This day was a really mean one. At first Mrs. Hudson, standing in her kitchen, threatening to hit him with a rolled-up news paper, telling him what a bloody stupid boy he was to lie to her. After that, he had lured Mary to the flat in Baker Street with a fake text she thought came from John. Mary actually hit him, luckily, her weapon of choice was a pillow she grabbed passing the couch, calling him a selfish, cruel son of a bitch, treating his only friend like crap, lying to him, making John watch him jumping of that damn roof.

Truth be told, Sherlock had expected those two women to react by this manner and he hadn't been looking forward to that first meeting. He just wanted everything back to how it was b.M., before Moriarty. But they gave him a chance to explain, both of them. They understood his motives, the reason for him faking his death. And they calmed down, their anger faded.

Somehow, he thought John would be happy to see him. Grateful to have him back in his life. Because above all, John was loyal. Always was, always would be – at last, he had believed so. Why had John looked so damn disappointed? The doors opened and Sherlock paced towards the entrance. Mycroft was right, at least this time. He had to get to the rendezvous-coordinates. He had to play his part. He had to find out who was behind all of this, so that he was able to stop them.

* * *

Another button flashed, someone else wanted to join them on their way downwards. John didn't mind. There were security guards on every floor, he just needed to find one. He didn't plan on sharing the elevator with a civilian and his attacker, so he pulled the half-conscious man on his feet, his hands tied with his belt, to shove him outside and take him to one of the guards. The doors opened and John saw the light reflecting in a blade. Without thinking, he raised his arm to protect his face and throat and felt the cold steel slicing his lower arm. He instantly released the tied man as well as the gun. _Damn it!, _he nagged at himself, hot pain racing through his arm upwards to his shoulder, causing nausea and dizziness. Black spots blurred his vision and a hot wave swashed over his body.

The new enemy used John's confusion, entered the elevator and pressed him against the wall; he pushed a button, the knife carefully placed at John's throat. "If I was you, I wouldn't move", he warned John, not caring about his colleague who was lying on the floor once again, groaning and swearing. "Heard you had a bad day. Let's see if I can make it a little bit worse." He removed the blade for a second, punching his elbow into John's stomach. He grabbed John's shirt, holding him on his feet, and placed the blade back at his throat. "Let's go somewhere more private where we can get to know each other better. It's such a nice day for making new friends, isn't it?"

_Stupid, stupid, stupid! _How could he just let go of the gun? _Fuck! _John felt the warm blood streaming down his arm, his wrist, dropping off his fingers. He needed to take a look at the wound, needed to wrap something around it to stop the bleeding, but at the moment, moving wasn't actually an opportunity. He glanced at the buttons. They headed for the garage. Perhaps they planned taking him somewhere else – or just on a soundproof car where no one would hear him scream. No matter what their plan was, he needed to do something as long as they didn't outnumber him. The first attacker was still on the ground and wouldn't cause any troubles. But this knife at his throat wasn't exactly the best basis for starting a rebellion. "I'm bleeding", John said with lowered voice.

"No kidding."

John closed his eyes, swallowed. "If you need me alive, for, you know, us becoming friends, then me bleeding to death would be rather unfavourable, wouldn't it?" He wasn't injured that badly – at least, he hoped he wasn't – but it perhaps offered him a way to get rid of the knife.

A malicious smile seized his lips and the man nodded softly. "W don't want this to end in tragedy. But you will have to hold on for a couple of minutes. We'll make you comfortable as soon as we are in the car. A very good friend of mine will take care of your wound, don't worry."

Great. Complete failure. But what used his trainer to say? _If you fail, try again. And again and again and again until you either win or die. _And hell no, he wouldn't die today. Anyway, this was his territory and home-field advantage was a beautiful thing, wasn't it? John groaned and grimaced, started to breath heavily. "I'm not", he began as the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

"Move. Carefully."

The man pulled him outside and briefly stopped to get behind John, not letting of the knife. "See the green van? Go there."

John focused at the car, but walked patchy, groaning, breathing heavier with every single step. "Can't", he said and slumped. Risky, but his only chance, already being so damn close to the green van. He hit the ground, realizing that his captor had remove the blade fast enough to not slice his throat. John didn't move, held his eyes closed, waited, carefully listening to every single sound that reached his ears. Someone knelt down next to his side and the he felt two fingers, searching for a pulse. John suddenly turned around, smashing his fist against the man's knee, punching his elbow into his kidney, jumped up and ran towards Dr. Bresinsky's SUV to take shelter behind it ...


	3. Chapter 3

"He should be here by now", Mary said, wrinkles of concern and anger covering her forehead. Sherlock left more than an hour ago. Fifteen minutes to the clinic, ten minutes to talk to John, fifteen minutes back. She looked at the old clock on the ledge, sighed. "And Sherlock doesn't answer his phone." She marched to the door, turned around, marched back to the windows, turned around again. "Something went wrong." Once again, she dialed John's number. _Pick up! Pick up! Pick up! _"What is it with men and bloody phones? Can't they just answer a call? Is it that complicated to push a single button and to put the bloody phone to their ears?" She snorted angrily and stared at the guard who stood watch at the door. The man didn't even blink. Mary sighed, frustrated and impatient, and left another message for John. With every message she had left, her tone had gotten a touch more impolite, had processed from different softly versions of _love you_, _be careful_ and _I'm worried, John_ to a very harsh _where the bloody hell are you! _

"I'm sure the boys are fine. Perhaps they just had to sort out some things", Mrs. Hudson replied and rearranged the pillows on the couch.

"I'm afraid in this Sherlock won't be fine", Mary retorted and stopped at the windows, arms-crossed.

"Black eye?"

"Broken nose."

"Justified. We've let him get away far too easily with this story."

"I concur."

Mrs. Hudson silently nodded, clasped her hands and said: "Why don't I fetch us a plateful of cookies? We have to wait for the boys to come home either way."

"Agreed. What about a drink? There's some marvelous Scotch hidden behind those books."

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

A nice, little shower.

A couple of hours of undisturbed sleep.

Another shower.

Lunch with Mary.

Was that too much to ask?

No, he had to stay at the clinic instead, taking over Roger's shift who caught himself a nasty bug. Three patients puked on him, particularly on his shoes, so he swapped them – but who the hell had three spare pairs of shoes in his locker? He borrowed the third pair from Roger, guessing his colleague wouldn't miss them today. They didn't exactly perfectly fit, but at least they didn't stink. A four-year old socked him on the jaw, rebelling against the inoculation John was about to administer him. No lunch with Mary, in fact, no lunch at all. Instead, a kid with alcohol intoxication dying on his table. A wonderful day, wasn't it?

Gunshots echoed through the garage.

John focused on steady, even breathing. The fingers of his right hand started to feel numb and the nausea had gotten worse, but due to the adrenalin streaming through his veins, John felt awake enough to go one. He glanced at his injured arm. It was very unpleasant and he needed some stitches, but he wouldn't bleed to death. The gunshots stopped, the sound of approaching paces and quietly whispers. He searched his pockets for his cell. The security cameras hadn't been working in months and there was no chance that anyone outside the garage had heard the shots. John searched his pockets for his cell and swore when he remembered leaving the cell on his desk. Marvelous. He sneaked from the SUV to a smaller car, watching out for his haunters. They were only a couple of feet away and he couldn't outrun them.

_Think, John, and think fast! _

"Dr. Watson, don't do this. Just stand up, raise your hands and walk towards the van."

John picked some stones out of the car tire he was sitting next to, threw them across the garage behind another car and move two cars forwards. He knew his haunters wouldn't buy the illusion, but they couldn't resist the reflex to look in the direction the noise came from. If he could distract them for one more time, he could make it to the stairs. Two floors downstairs, there was the pathology. Far less staff then in the hospital above and no civilians – well, no alive one's. There were no guards down there, but phones, first aid kits and lots of sharp objects he could easily turn into weapons. And Ed, if he was lucky. Ed, the wannabe Texan who never ever went anywhere without his gun.

"I guess that wound of yours must burn like hell. Why don't you join us so that we can take care of it?"

Distraction. John searched his pockets for something useful and found a ball pen, a rubber, two stripes of bubblegum and – ok, that was weird. A Swiss army? Where did that come from? He was quite sure that he didn't even own one, much less that he put one in his pockets. _Sherlock. _He must have slipped it in his pocket. Who did Sherlock think John was? MacGyver? The A-Team? Was he supposed to build a bloody bomb with all that stuff in his pockets? _Not with this stuff, _he suddenly thought and smiled. Chemicals. He really needed to get to the pathology.

"Oh, come on, stop fooling around!"

Okay, so, what to use as distraction? The rubber would perhaps not make enough noise. The bubblegum was definitely not to be at issue. The ball-pen would do the job – but if he didn't make it to the door, if they captured and searched him, the Swiss army would be gone anyway. They wouldn't have let him keep the weapon, but perhaps they wouldn't care about the ball-pen. Not his first choice when it came to objects used as weapons and in most cases non-lethal, still, being stabbed with a ball-pen was unpleasant. Damn it, did he really decide to sacrifice the Swiss army in order to keep the pen? John sighed, took a deep breath, put the rest of the objects back in his pockets and at the pocket knife for one last time, before he threw it across the garage.

It hit the roof of a car, slid down the front shield and fell down in the ground, making satisfyingly much noise. John leaped on his feet and ran towards the door as fast as he possibly could, counting 21, 22, 23, his hand on the door knob when the gunshots started again. John entered the stairway, briefly looked around for something to block the door, unsuccessful, so he ran downstairs, his heart racing, his wound burning and blood all over his clothes – and yet, a thin smile appeared on his lips, because, hell, he hadn't felt that much alive for far too long!

* * *

Sherlock glanced at the display of his phone and sighed in relieve. Not Mary. But then, was talking with his older brother seriously better? Well, at least he could tell Mycroft that he was on his way and therefore put a soon end the conversation. If he was stupid enough to pick up when Mary called, he would have to tell her that he left her going-to-be husband at the clinic, non-informed and without protection. "I'm on my way", Sherlock quietly said, trying not to sound annoyed or angry.

"Did John call you?"

Sherlock knit his brows and stared at the back of the seat in front of him. "Your men haven't found him at the clinic", he replied and glanced at the cab driver. "Mr. Ihati, please take the next possible turn and drive back to the clinic. It's an emergency, so speed up, but try to not get us killed."

"There's no reason for you to ..."

"You quite well know that there is", Sherlock disagreed and watched the driver indicating and turning the car around. He ended the conversation and dialed John's number, waited, his lips pursed, his mind racing. _They haven't got him yet, _he thought,_ if they had captured him, they would have called me, told me they were willing to let him go in exchange for myself. _Perhaps John was in the restroom. Or he had left the clinic after talking to the parents. _No, he had not. _None of his colleagues at the clinic knew where John was. Mycrofts' men were quite talented when it came to being a real pain in the ass, but they were thorough. Sherlock closed is eyes to rest for a moment. To let emotions blurry his mind wasn't any good for John.

He dialed Mycroft's number. "He must have escaped in the garage", Sherlock said and added, "John would never risk all those civilians getting harmed, so he won't go back to the clinic. There's the pathology beneath the hospital. Lots of sharp objects, rare staff and he knows the terrain."

"You gave him your Swiss army."

"Is there any blood on it?"

"No, but they found blood in the elevator and on the ground close to some cars."

"Find him", Sherlock said and dialed another number. "Mary, I know you are angry at me and yes, something happened to John, but he is still alive and I'll make sure that he stays that way. There's the possibility of someone calling you, giving you orders and talking about killing John if you don't follow their orders. That's going to be a lie. The moment you leave the flat, both of you are dead. So I need you to stay with Mrs. Hudson and the guards."

"You are not with him, are you."

"No, but I'm going to be any minute."

"You left him. Again."

Her icy words hit Sherlock unprepared. He had to clear his throat, before he answered:" Don't leave the flat. Under no circumstances." He put the cell back into one of his pockets and pursed his lips. "Please drive to the emergency entrance, Mr. Ihati."

"But ..."

"This is an emergency, remember?"


	4. Chapter 4

Wrapping paper and birthday cards. Not exactly what John had expected, but actually good news. He glanced at his watch. The staff down here used to take lunch at the cafeteria all together, same time every day. He had almost 30 minutes left without any civilians getting in his way. And in consideration of that fact that they were celebrating Enton's birthday and eating cakes and muffins, they perhaps even stayed a bit longer upstairs.

John's hand floated over the medical tools in the drawer, while he was thinking which one to take. Finally, he chose three objects to become his weapons and put them in his pocket. Afterwards, he paced across the room, taking a first aid kit with him, heading for the dissecting room. There was only one door in, so they couldn't surround him or sneak up from behind. Advantage. Of course, he had to win their little game in order to leave the dissecting room again as a free man. John stopped, listened for his haunters' footsteps and entered a small chamber. They didn't know on which sub level he was. Sad to say that one level upstairs the only unlocked rooms were the restrooms. It would take them five minutes, tops, to figure out that he wasn't hiding in one of the toilets. He unlocked a cabinet and skimmed over the labels. The doctor grabbed two flasks and left the chamber again. He ran down the hall, opened the last door and slid into the room. Behind one of the tables, John sat down, putting everything he had grabbed on the floor.

He began pulling up his shirt-sleeve, gritting his teeth such hard that they crunched by trying to oppress an outcry of pain. Parts of his sleeve stuck with the dried blood to his wound and he definitely had to remove the cloth. Fresh blood streamed down his arm and wrist. Using his left hand and his teeth, John opened the wrapping of the bandages and dressed the wound. Once he was done, he carefully clenched his fist. Could be better, but … John frowned. In the corner of his eyes he saw a sudden move. He leaped on his feet, turned around and stared at the the intruder. "Marvelous", the doctor mumbled and sighed. "Listen, there are some bad guys coming here to get me. You have to hide." John searched the room, paced towards a floor cupboard and opened it. "In here."

Her hair was straight, long and dark brown, almost black, her complexion white, her lips very red. She looked at his bandage with her small, dark eyes, hesitated.

"You have to trust me", John said, not sure if he had trusted a stranger telling him to creep into a cupboard being at her age. Actually, it was much more likely that he had kicked that stranger and made a quick getaway. She attentively watched him, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. If he could just explain the situation, she would understand it. Unfortunately, they had no time to spare. Most doors down here were locked so there were only about seven rooms his haunters had to search before they finally ended up in the dissecting room.

The girl, however, slowly nodded, went to the cupboard, her patent leather shoes clicking at every step.

John masked the feeling of relief which swashed over him and told her: "You have to be very quiet. Breath calmly. Don't leave, no matter what you hear, no matter how long it takes." He helped her to crawl inside the cupboard. There wasn't much room, but it would work. "If it's not me who opens the doors and pulls you out, say: Call Mycroft Holmes. Got that?"

Once again, the girl nodded. "I saw you upstairs. You examined my Granny", she whispered and added: "Kincaid, Phoebe Kincaid."

John bowed his head and smiled. "I remember you asking where all the blood samples went we took from your Granny. I promise you, if you stay in here and do as I told you, I'll answer every question you got. Deal?"

"Deal."

The doctor closed the doors of the cupboard and lowly swore. A kid! A damn kid! He was hoping for an armed Ed and what did he get? A ten year old girl! He couldn't blow anything up in here, not with the girl around. John sneaked back to his table, grabbing the flasks. He had to move to another room, to lead them away from …

"Doctor, my doctor."

_Oh, crap._

"I don't have time for playing hide and seek. I brought four of my dearest friends with me. So, now there's five of us and only one of you, I guess you can do the math."

John carefully listened to the enclosing footsteps to his right. He slowly shifted his weight and turned around, a hammer in the right and a hypodermic needle in the left one. He took one last deep breath, before he rushed forwards, punched the hammer against both knees and pulled the enemy on the ground who was shouting in pain – but not for long. Johns' hands slid over the man's neck and twisted it. The bone snapped and instantly, it was quiet again. John resisted the urge to scream in pain. He let go of the hammer, blood leaking through the bandage. The next haunter cautiously approached, warned by the sudden silence. John steadied his weight, waited. Another pair of legs, dark cloth slacks, shining shoes. He pushed a needle into the man's left leg, just above his knee, inserted the fluids and backed down. _21, 22, 23._ The man fell down and didn't move any more. Three enemies and only two weapons left: the ball-pen and the scalpel. A foot kicked John's shoulder, almost carried him off his feet. John grabbed the man's leg, got kicked in the back of his head by a gun, but managed and sliced his thigh. Blood spilled over his hand and once again, John backed down. The third man fell on the ground, hands on the deep wound, not able to stop the immense bleeding, and passed out. John looked at him. Even if he tried to apply a compression bandage, it was to late. _Concentrate, no time for regrets, _John reminded himself and pressed his injured arm against his chest.

"Look what we got here. I'm Joey and who are you, honey?"

"Call Mycroft Holmes."

John froze for one second. Then he sighed and raised his hands, standing up very slowly. "Okay, fine. You got me. You won. I'll behave and got to your van. Just let the girl go." He kindly smiled at the man who captured Phoebe. It was the knife-man. Blond, short hair, blue eyes. Joey. John doubted that this was his opponent's real name.

Another man, thin, lanky somehow, pointed his gun at John and ordered: "Put down the knife. No quick moves." He looked daggers at John, his finger on the trigger.

John obeyed the order and slowly put down the scalpel on the table, showing good will. Not that he had much to offer after he just killed three of Joey's men. "Fine. Just put the girl back into the cupboard. We'll be long gone when they find her."

Joey regretfully shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. You've been a naughty boy, Dr. Watson. You have to learn that your actions have consequences. The kid's death is on you."

"Didn't you hear what she said?"

The man frowned, shifted his weight from one leg to the other, tried to remember.

"Lucinda, can you please repeat what you just said?", John said to Phoebe.

"Call Mycroft Holmes."

"I don't get it", Joey replied. "If you are only playing for time ..."

"If you harm this girl, Mycroft Holmes won't just end your life. He'll make you suffer", John interrupted him, a cold smile on his face. He would give his right hand for making the man suffer here and now. John felt his injured arm getting heavier the longer he stood there, raising both hands.

Joey laughed, shook his head in amusement. "Really? Because Mycroft cares so much about one little girl?"

"Not about one little girl, perhaps", John said, feeling his heard pounding against his sternum such hard that for a moment he thought the bone would break. His condition as well as the situation were worsening. He was close enough to immobilize the lanky chap, but not Joey. He took a deep breath, silently praying the bluff would work and added: "But definitely about his little girl."

"What …"

"The girl you point your gun at is Lucinda Serena Holmes, Mycroft's youngest."

"The Holmes brothers don't have any kids."

"None everyone knows about, indeed. He prefers not to tell every Tom, Dick and Harry." John lowered his arms a bit, shifted his weight and directly looked at Joey. "No one is supposed to know."

"But you just told me. A weird coincidence, isn't it."

"It's my job to take care for her, to protect her. Keeping her identity a secret would be contra-productive in this case. This is no coincidence at all."

Joey stepped away from Phoebe, looking her over. "Why should Mycroft Holmes entrust his daughter in your care, Dr. Watson?"

Before John could answer, Phoebe said: "When I'm grown up, I want to become a doctor."

Silence found it's way into the room, covered everything and everyone, slowing down time, turning seconds into minutes. After what felt like an eternity, Joey nodded and faced John again. "You know, you're right. Harming Mycroft's daughter is a bad idea. And I'm sure he won't hesitate to trade his brother to get his kid back. I'm sorry but that means I don't need you any longer and to be true - I'm not sorry." He grabbed the girls coat and pulled her towards the door.

"No, wait, don't!", Phoebe screamed and tried to kick Joey.

"Lucy, it's fine, sweetheart. They won't harm you. You are a Holmes, don't forget that. Straighten up, shoulders back, show no fear. Go with your head held high. Your Father is gonna be proud of you", John said and gave her a softly smile.

Phoebe pursed her lips, nodded, gritted her teeth and straightened a bit.

"You have five minutes to play with him, Bobby, then finish the doctor. I'll wait in the van", Joey told his last living associate and left the room with Phoebe.


	5. Chapter 5

_You left him. Again. Marys'_ words kept swashing through his mind like waves rolling towards the seashore and backwards again, just to return seconds later. He couldn't get rid of them, no matter how hard he tried. He never felt guilty about faking his own death. It had been necessary to save lives, John's, amongst other things. But this wasn't his friend's fight, it was Sherlock's. He was supposed to be the bait, he was supposed to be the one risking his life. Even so, it was John who ended up with a gun pointing at him. Sherlock ran down the stairs, accompanied by Mycrofts' men who were armed to the teeth, although they looked more like poster boys for the next James Bond movie.

The leader stopped, raising his fist, carefully opening the door to autopsy. He started moving again and the rest of the troop entered the long hall. Someone turned the corner and Mycrofts' men raised their guns, aiming at the target.

"This day keeps getting better all along", the man said, pressing a gun at a girl's right temple. "I capture Dr. Watson, trade him for Mycroft's daughter and finally run into the most wanted Sherlock Holmes. My is going to love this."

"Let my niece go", Sherlock said, facing the man. _Nice touch, John_, he thought and secretly eyed up the girl. She didn't cry or whine, actually, she stood there, with her head held high and pursed lips.

"I can't do that. If I let her go, they will empty their magazines shooting bullets in my body."

"They are going to drop their weapons and let you leave with me as your hostage", Sherlock replied. He needed to separate him from the girl. As long as she was his hostage, their hands were tied. Mycrofts' men were damn good shooters, but they wouldn't risk injuring the girl.

The man shook his had, broadly smiling. "Well, no. Here's the deal. Your escorts drop their weapons and you, Lucky Lucy and me leave all together."

"Where's John?", Sherlock asked, ignoring the proposal. Sherlock knew in which room his friend was. But the captor had a new hostage, he didn't need John any more.

"Whose more important to you – your niece or your buddy?"

"You won't harm her. Even you are not stupid enough to harm a daughter of his." According to the mess they left in the garage, he had at least three accomplices. Probably, they were still in the dissecting room, torturing John.

"Perhaps she's not a Holmes at all. Perhaps she's just a little girl being in the wrong place the wrong time and Mycroft won't care a shit about her."

"If you seriously believed that, you would have killed her to punish John." John wasn't their target, Sherlock was. John couldn't tell them anything they wanted to know. He was no use to them and therefore, they would kill him.

"They are right, you know. You are a clever boy."

"Where is John."

The man glanced at his wristwatch. "He's got 75 seconds left to live."

"Call it off."

"Why on earth should I?"

"Because if you are afraid of what Mycroft does to you if you harm his daughter, you should as well be afraid of what he does to you if you kill his husband."

"His what?" The man laughed. "Everyone I want to kill today seems to be somehow miraculously related to Mycroft Holmes."

Sherlock mildly smiled. "My brother is a man of many secrets. And so is my brother in law. Did you really think Mycroft would trade his own brother to free his brother's captured flat mate? That he would entrust Lucy to his brother's flat mate? I know to you it's unfamiliar, but use your brain, just for once. Call. It. Off."

The man hesitated, but then he nervously pulled his cell out of a pocket and speed dialed a number. "Stop it. Don't finish him. I know what I said. No, stay where you are. Wait for new orders." He glanced back at Sherlock. "Okay, so this is going to be a family trip. Drop your weapons and push them over the floor towards me. Then sit down, hands behind your heads. The three of us leave. If we reach the car safely, I'll call my associate to bring Dr. Watson. Now, move it, boys."

* * *

John attempted to protect his head and torso by crouching, but therefore had to take some kicks against his back, arms and legs. If he chanced his luck and failed, he would seal Phoebe's death. Joey would shoot her whether he believed her to be Mycroft's daughter or not. A cold shiver ran through John, his muscles trembling uncontrollably. He took another hit to his kidneys and groaned. Every single cell in his body was boiling over with anger for not getting permission to fight back. He clenched his fists when shoes hit his shoulder. _Just leap on your feet and fight that damn bastard! Beat the crap out of him, then take his gun and put a bullet into Joey's head!_ John winced at the well known voice in his head, a voice he hadn't heard in decades; however much he hated the voice and the person it belonged to, he had to admit to at least wished he could follow this scenario through. Just when John was about to give up and leap on his feet, a phone rang and his attacker let up on him.

"What?"

John grit his teeth and tried to overhear the conversation which was kind of hard, because he fell into a fit of coughing.

"No, Joey, you told me to ...", Bobby replied, but apparently got interrupted. He didn't sound pleased, more like an ill-humoured brat not getting the toy it wanted.

Something had changed. But what? And why? By choosing to kill John and taking the girl instead, Joey acted on his own authority. Perhaps he informed the client about this change of plan and the client wasn't satisfied. If the client wanted him alive, perhaps they would take him to the van. But perhaps that meant, the client wasn't interested in keeping Phoebe alive. John silently swore and shifted his weight, rolling on his side. "Damn it", John hissed, crying out in pain. Tears blurred his visions, as gleaming pain shot trough his left leg. One of the kicks in the shin had fractured the bone and it definitely dislike John moving carelessly.

"Do you want me to take him to you?"

Nevertheless, his fibula and the surrounding muscles were able to stabilize the broken bone and carry some his weight. There was the chance of a brief attack. But what to use? There was nothing … _Oh, crap_, John thought, while he reached for the ball-pen in his pockets. He should have kept the Swiss army …

"Yeah, I'll wait." Bobby finished his call and turned back to John. He looked at him, disappointed. "Joey ran into someone who seems to be very interested in you staying alive. Consider this your lucky day, Dr. Watson."

_Sherlock. _Again, he coughed. It sounded rattling and painful and when John removed his hand from his mouth, there was fresh blood on it. John stared at his hand, frozen, as well as Bobby. Once more, he fell into a fit of coughing and suddenly John started to gasp for air. He seized, shook, cramped, groaning with pain and then he stopped moving all at once; his head sank on the ground, hos muscles relaxed, his chest motionless.

"Shitshitshit!" Bobby threw some object of a table and swore angrily while they shattered on the ground. He knelt down, his cell at his ear, searching for a pulse with his free hand. He looked at John wide-eyed, but couldn't stop John's hand ramming the ball-pen in his throat. Bobby choked, dropped his phone, his hands touching the writing utensil that protruded from his throat in frozen disbelieve.

John grabbed a piece of cloth to silence the shot and finished what he had started. He had no sympathy for dear Bobby, but suffocation was a cruel way to die. John stood up, most of his weight on his right foot, and leaned against the table. Dark spots blurred his vision, dancing and jumping in front of his eyes. He swallowed, trying to fight the upcoming nausea. He thought about the hospital beds only some floors upstairs and wished he already lied in one of them, painkillers running through his veins. He glanced at his arm. The bandage was bloated with blood, his hand felt numb. Perhaps the cut was deeper than he realized. And then there was the fact that he had coughed blood. Very effective, for sure, but yet a rather bad sign. Perhaps it was time to give up, sit down, rest and wait for Mycrofts' men to come rushing in. Damn it, perhaps it was time to just lie down and die. John sighed. Mary would kill him.

He straightened and started moving towards the door. For the first time in years, John deeply wished he still had his cane ...


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock waited, his hands raised, Mycrofts' men on the floor, hands behind their heads. The captor walked through an ocean of guns, his own one still pressed at the girl's temple. No exit. No chance. Nothing. The detective simulated scenario after scenario, rushing through his head, but none ended well. Not here. Not with this constellation. Not with those tokens on the board. Eight feet close, Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "You scare her. She's crying."

The girl's shoulders slightly went up and down.

Sherlock crouched down and reached out for the her. "There's no need to put the gun against her head. You are close enough to shoot both of us any time you want."

The captor hesitated, wanted to answer, but when Phoebe sobbed and cried even louder, he harshly pushed her towards the detective, pointing his gun at her back. "Don't do anything stupid."

Sherlock grabbed her tiny hands and pulled her into what at first seemed to be a hug. But then he nodded, turned her around and pressed her on the ground, covering her with his own body. "Stay down", he whispered. The captor looked at his hostages, irritated and confused, glanced at the troop still sitting on the ground, hands behind their heads, and snorted in surprise and disbelieve, as a shot echoed through the hall. Within the blink of an eye, his body thudded on the ground, his gun slithered over the floor, accompanied by another thud. And then, silence fell.

Seconds transformed into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into eternity.

A wave of nausea descended upon Sherlock. His skin itched insomuch that he wanted to scratch it with his finger nails, pressure grew in his head, mashing his brain, noise ringing in his ears, but his limbs so leaden that he just couldn't move. He closed his eyes, saw John, slowly turning the corner, his face, all red and swollen, a bloody hand holding a gun, calmly aiming at the captor. Saw John silently nodding. Saw the girl running towards him, away from the captor. Saw John, nodding again, leaving cover, a smile on his face.

Heard two thuds.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Someone grabbed his shoulder, pulled him upwards. Sherlock blinked and looked at the man. Fraiser, had worked for Mycroft for more than twenty years, married, two children, a son in law, three grandchildren. Fraiser eyed him up, searching for injuries. "Are you alright, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded, swallowed.

Freddy Donovan passed by, a small Asian, very focused, talking to his radio. "Holmes, Watson and a civilian saved. Need a stretcher, Watson injured. Need body bags."

_Injured._

This year's understatement.

Sherlock ditched Fraiser and ran to John who was lying on the ground, eyes closed, breathing heavily, unsteady. He knelt down, staring at his friend, cataloguing his injuries. In the corner of his eye, he saw the girl kneeling down next to him, carefully taking John's right hand, squeezing it softly. "You did well", Sherlock complimented her and gently put two fingers on John's neck to take his pulse. Racing and weak, as expected. Luckily, it wouldn't take long for the medical staff to arrive. "Crying by command. Not bad, not at all", he added, feeling urged to talk to her. Kids never were his strong suit. They were so … unpredictable.

"Thank you", she quietly replied, not looking at him, but John.

"You are welcome."

"Is he … is he dying?"

Sherlock glanced at her. The tears which now ran down her cheeks were different. She didn't whine, didn't cry aloud, just cried silently, pursing her lips, holding John's hand. He must have made hell of an impression on her. "No, he's not. He's not the kind of guy who heroically saves the day and then dies."

"What kind of guy is he then?"

"The down-to-earth sort of guy. Practical."

The girl sniveled, but smiled. And Sherlock – returned the smile.

Sudden noises, voices, people running towards them, ended their warm and understanding silence.

John's eyelids flickered and Sherlock laid his hand on his friend's shoulder, keeping him on the ground. "Easy, John. Don't make things worse."

"John? What the hell", a female doctor shouted, browsing over John's tortured body. She grabbed a soft collar and carefully put it around John's neck. "Sir, you need to step back", another doctor said and nudged Sherlock aside. He watched them lifting John on the stretcher, exchanging orders, instructions, insights. Then, they shoved the stretcher with John on it towards the doors and it went quiet again.

"Phoebe Kincaid? Come with me. Your mother is worried sick", a tall, but somehow uneven man said.

The girl looked up at Sherlock and he nodded. "Go. It's fine."

The tall man took Phoebe's hand and they walked along the corridor. Sherlock headed the other direction and entered the dissecting room which was – putting it mildly – a mess. Mycrofts' men were already bagging the corpses. Dark blood clustered to a puddle, an abandoned injection needle at center. Aside, two flasks stood on the ground. Sherlock crouched down, read the labels and softly shook his head. The silent, good doctor had planned to blow up this room. At least parts of it. _Deep waters …_

* * *

The room was crowded, but quiet, when Mycroft entered. He saw Mary sitting close to John's bed, holding his right hand, watching his chest raise and lower with every breath of air; a little girl sat next to her, a big teddy bear on her lap. It was a quite cheep one from the gift shop downstairs. One of his men had bought it for her while she told Fraiser what she knew about the events.

Lestrade, who had been present when the girl was questioned, stood in one of the corners, his eyes tired, his face pale. The DI was rumored to sleep in his office for at least two weeks. Perhaps, he finally left his still cheating wife. But mainly, he seemed candidly worried about Dr. Watson.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson stood next to DI Lestrade, Sherlock leaning against the wall, his landlady sitting in a chair, a cup of tea in her hands. Most of the tea was still in the cup, not steaming any more. She must have been sitting here for quite a while, to worried or nervous to find confidence in drinking a decent cup of tea.

"Well, how is my dear husband?", Mycroft finally asked, his voice lowered, staring at his brother. He was surprised to see Sherlock briefly smile, but masked his amazement. Instead, he took a closer look at the girl. Fraiser was right, there were some similarities. The dark hair, the pale complexion, here eyes. It was easy to believe them to be related. But John Watson being his beloved husband? He wondered, how Sherlock managed to make this seem plausible.

"He's been stabbed, shot at and beaten. Besides that, he's fine", Mary answered, her eyes fixed on John. "Sherlock promised there would be no more surprising visitors tonight."

Mycroft nodded deliberately. "It has been taken care of. Guards are watching this door and are patrolling outside the clinic. But I'm afraid, the doctors insist on everyone inside this room leaving immediately – except the patient who needs to rest." He glanced at the girl. "Your mother is waiting for you, young lady."

Phoebe nodded, stood up and placed the teddy on the bedside cabinet. Then, she turned around and walked to the door, but stopped in front of Mycroft. She cocked her head, curiously looking at him, and asked: "If I become a spy, are you okay with me using Lucinda Serena Holmes as my spy name?"

Mycroft couldn't stop his lips from turning into a smile. "It would be an honor." He watched Phoebe smiling and leaving the room. "If everyone else would be so kind and follow the young lady's example."

Mary kissed John, squeezed his hand for one last time and stood up. She joined Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, who offered them a ride back home. The door shut close and silence filled the room once again.

"Is he going to die?", Sherlock asked, while he slowly paced to John's bed and sat down.

The question surprised Mycroft as well as the exhausted look on his brother's face. It had been a rough day, though, but usually, Sherlock seemed to absorb the energy of the events that happened around him – the faster and riskier they were, a fortiori spirited his brother was. Something seemed to bother his younger brother. Mycroft stepped to the foot of the bed and uncurled his tie. "We are all born to die, aren't we?"

"I'm not interested in philosophy, Mycroft", Sherlock sharply countered. "Did the doctors tell you that he is going to die?"

"Why do you care? You've never bin interested in other peoples' opinions. Trust your own mind, you keep saying."

"Mycroft", Sherlock began, but his voice faded.

Mycroft watched his younger brother carefully. Sherlock always trusted his mind, his senses. The answer was obvious, so why did he seem to be unsure, even scared of what he saw? "You doubt your own deductions."

"I'm simply not a doctor."

"That never ever stopped you before. Why don't you just admit that he's influencing you. That even the great Sherlock Holmes can be scared when a friend's life is at risk."

"Because such a statement wouldn't change anything about whether John is going to die tonight or not." Sherlock closed his eyes. "So can you just for once in my life not behave like a lesson teaching mother, but like my caring brother and tell me what the doctors said?"

Mycroft sighed and looked at John, the face a colorful composition of shades of green, blue and violet. Most of his body was covered by a white blanket which made him look fragile and weak, what was disconcerting and confusing. Whenever Mycroft had seen Sherlock and John together, John was the one who appeared to be robust and unshakeable. He always worried about his little brother, but never even thought about what could happen to John. Perhaps, he just didn't want to think about it, because he couldn't carry the burden of feeling responsible for another person in his life. Perhaps, when this unusual partnership started, he thought Sherlock would get bored of John and drop him sooner or later. But no, there he was, injured and defenseless, and forced Sherlock into the role of a supporting, helping friend.

Mycroft straightened up, folding his arms behind his back. "He's going to walk over this planet with only eleven pairs of ribs, they had to remove a shattered pair – but he's going to walk."

"Are they sure about this?"

"Yes, they are. Unfortunately, they are not sure about his left hand and if he will be able to perform as a doctor. But I guess, with your return from the dead, him working as a doctor is decrepit anyway, isn't it."

"I wouldn't take that for granted."

Mycroft cocked his head and frowned. "Still trouble in Baker Paradise?"

"We didn't have any time to talk about it. He passed out after he had shot Grayston. And I'm afraid, waking him up right now won't do any good."

"Go home and get some sleep. And eat something. I heard there's actually food in the fridge since you left."

"He never liked the head in the fridge." Sherlock glanced at John and nodded. "Just a couple of more minutes."

Mycroft went to the door, laid his fingers on the door knob and said: "I'll ask the nurse for a pillow and a blanket." Then he left the room and closed the door.

* * *

Hi there! Thanks for reading, following, reviewing! And thanks for "barain" and "crane", don't know what I was thinking. Perhaps that I always wanted to drive a crane. )


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock didn't realize that he had fallen asleep until he woke up, his dreamless sleep disturbed by the alarming sounds of medical machines. He took some seconds to realize where he was, why he was there and what the noise could possibly mean. Appalled, Sherlock jumped up, but got entangled in the blanket which hadn't been there before, remembering Mycroft leaving the room, saying something about a pillow and a blanket, and wildly swore while he lost his patience, experiencing some difficulties to gain back his balance. The noises didn't make any sense, didn't fit to a cardiac arrest and not to breathing arrest – to the moment, when Sherlock managed to get rid of the blanket and looked at his friend who was ripping wires and hoses out of his arms and hands. Sherlock blinked in confusion, then hurried forwards, gripped Johns' wrists and shook his head to fortify his words. "No, John, stop it. John, stop it, come to your senses. John!" An elbow against the detective's jaw made him stumble backwards, loosing the grip on Johns' wrists.

Two male-nurses emerged from nowhere, weighing John down. At least they tried. The more force they used, the more strength John put in his resistance. Johns' moves, the look on his face, his eyes – they told a comprehensive story the detective easily read within seconds. Sadly, the nurses weren't able to read the man, actually, they didn't even try to. Instead, they went on pushing John down, tempting to administer a tranquilizer. Sherlock grabbed one nurse's arm and pulled the man backwards. "Leave him alone if you don't want to die, Patrick", he warned the man, glancing at the name tag.

Patrick dragged himself away and glared at Sherlock, his face reddened by the exercise. "Step back, we can handle the situation."

"A soldier, fighting for his life? I gravely doubt it. Let go of him and step back, both of you", Sherlock repeated his orders.

This time, the nurses listened. They stepped back and looked at Sherlock, concerned and suddenly a bit pale. "I'll fetch a security guard", Patrick whispered and paced backwards.

"No, you won't." Sherlock cocked his head and peered at his friend who sat in the bed, his muscles stretched to breaking point, his whole body shouting _ready for attack_. After a moment of silence, Sherlock harshly yelled: "Captain Watson! What the hell is going on! Did the sun burn the last piece of brain remained in your head! Answer me, Captain!" His heart winced at John's confused and lost eyes, watching his friend trying to put the pieces back together. After all, this John wasn't about to harm anyone. His shoulders slouching, the pale man sat on his bed and closed his eyes, desperately tempting to answer a question he didn't have the answer to.

"Excuse me, Sir ...", John quietly said, opening his eyes again.

"Excuse! My ass! Lay down and let those Corporals do their work, Captain, or I'll rip you a new one!"

John hesitated, briefly glanced at the nurses, but then cleared his throat and said: "Yes, Sir."

Patrick sighed in relief and paced to his patient to rewire him again. His colleague shook his head, sighed and mumbled: "I'll get Dr. Pearson, he has to recheck the sutures." While the door shut close behind the man, Sherlock leaned his back against the wall and watched Patrick patching his friend up who wasn't just keeping still, but dozed off. Blood stained the bandages on John's arm and hand, horripilation on his bare skin, cold sweat on his forehead. After a couple of minutes the sounds of the machines altered, switched from red alert to something calmer, yellowish. John's heart rate was elevated as well as his temperature and more blood kept percolating through the bandages.

When Dr. Pearson rushed in, Sherlock was told to leave the room. Reluctantly, Sherlock pushed off the wall and went outside, not only the room, but the clinic. He didn't plan to, but wasn't able to stop his feet from moving. He entered the clinic's garden, passed a group of chatting, smoking nurses and walked across the lawn until he reached a wooden bench. The detective watched the bench carefully, before he sat down and put his feet on the bench, bending his legs, embracing them with his arms. He laid his head on his knees and closed his eyes, concentrating on a solution to his still existing problem of a man wanting to capture, displace and interrogate him.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, you should get back inside."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up, directly in Fraiser's worried face.

"Sir, you are shivering", the man quietly added, apologizing and explaining the reasons for bothering him.

Sherlock slowly nodded, put his feet on the ground and felt the coldness all over his body. Luckily, Fraiser had an eye on him and roused him from slumber before his sitting in the dark and cold night had unhealthy consequences. Sherlock pulled his coat and scarf tighter and started walking back to the clinic, accompanied by Fraiser. When he entered the clinic's warm and bright entrance hall, Sherlock squinted his eyes and inwardly groaned. The sudden warmth caused pain like thousands of sharp needles rushing over his skin.

They silently walked towards the elevator and went upstairs to John's room. The doors opened with a low pling and Fraiser looked down the corridor. "I'll get you a cup of tea, Sir."

Sherlock nodded, paced out of the elevator and to the only room with two black-suited security guards in front of it. He friendly ignored them and silently went inside the room. Almost every evidence of John's attempted escape was gone, but the remaining one was an eye-catcher.

"Stop staring, Sherlock. Unstrap me."

Sherlock noticed the slight annoyance and impatience in his friend's voice and briefly smiled. It was a good sign, wasn't it? If he had been sitting next to John all along, he would have been able to stop the nurses from immobilizing John by strapping him to the bed with soft belts, but at least that way John had no chance of doing something stupid; he simply had no other opportunity then keeping still and resting. Perhaps it would be the best for John's health, if ...

"Sherlock, don't you dare even thinking about letting me here like this! If you don't do this right now, I'm going to do it on my bloody own!"

Another smile rushed over Sherlock's face, before he stepped to John's bed and started to set him free. "You attacked the nurses", the detective said and glanced over the replaced bandages. They were white and clean, not the tiniest trace of blood.

"Apparently, not only them", John replied with a concerned look at Sherlock's bruised jaw. He pursed his lips, hesitated, but then added: "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to harm you."

"Au contraire. You definitely did." Sherlock finished unfastening John and sat down. Silence fell between them and Sherlock felt uncomfortable. He just didn't know what to tell John, much less how. He stood up again, paced to the window and looked out of the window. Stars sparkled in the dark sky, but besides them, nothing else from outside the building was visible. Instead, he saw a vague reflection of John, lying in his bed, staring at Sherlock's back.

"How did you do it?", John asked after a while.

"I faked my death by ..."

"No." John deliberately shook his head. "I'm not interested in this story."

"You just happened to ask about it." Maybe John was still a little bit confused, his thoughts incoherent. Sherlock examined John's reflection, but the stern look on his friend's face left no doubt: John was absolutely aware of his words. So, if John hadn't asked about how he faked his death ...

"He was going to kill me. They had the girl. And you. More then enough leverage. How did you convince them to let me live?"

"Actually, I only evolved your bluff. By the way, claiming the girl to be Mycroft's daughter – nice touch, John."

"Why do I get the sudden feeling that I won't like it?"

"It saved your life, didn't it?"

John sighed and laid his head down on the pillow. "Go ahead", he mumbled and closed his eyes.

"I put the idea of you being Mycroft's husband in his mind."

"Of course, you did … so instead of people stop talking about you and me, people are going to start talking about Mycroft and me. Marvelous." Suddenly, John raised an eyebrow. "Does Mycroft know about this? Please, just tell me you didn't tell him."

"I didn't tell him."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"How did he take it? Let me guess: he was not amused."

"At least, this time wore my pants."

Both men started to giggle and Sherlock finally turned around, his hands in his pockets, tears of joy in his eyes. He dashed the tears away and looked at John who cleared his throat. "You know, I won't forget what you caused by not telling me. I won't let you off the hook that easily." He impishly smiled and added: "But I'm glad that you are back."

_The end : hope you enjoyed!_


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